Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

Glancing at her watch. The first of the representatives-from Syria-would be here in three minutes.

What an ecstatic moment this was!

If only Devras were here to experience this with her…

She sipped her latte and glanced again at the turbaned fellow nearby, still muttering, his face dark.

The door to the coffee shop jingled open and an Arab in Western clothes entered. She recognized him as the Syrian assistant attaché for Economic Development and Infrastructure Support.

Read: spy.

She noted his shirt, flirtatiously open two buttons, his bare head, a beard vainly trimmed. Such a hypocrite, she thought. In their countries: no alcohol, no pork, no drugs, no women other than the wife or wives. Here, in London, anything went.

Still, she smiled his way: Jana Grover was as efficient a businesswoman as she was a killer.

He glanced at her and smiled an oily flirt her way. He started forward.

At last, Devras. Kashmir will be free…

Then the man froze, looking out the window. Police cars were screeching to a halt, men jumping out.

No! What was going on?

He turned to flee, but was stopped by a dapper man in a business suit coming through the door. He shoved the Syrian to the ground.

Jana understood that she’d been discovered, the whole plot had been found out!

She pushed back from the table and rose, going for the High Standard.22 under her blouse.

But a strong arm grabbed her wrist and bent it painfully behind her. The gun fell to the floor.

She glanced back. It was the turbaned Arab, who had shoved a pistol into her neck. She struggled furiously.

“Bloody hell, luv. Special Branch. Give it a rest, why don’t we?”

Sounding just like Ali G.

“She’s all yours,” Harold Middleton said to Ian Barrett-Bone, whose slacks had been badly smudged in the take-down of the Syrian. He brushed with some irritation at a stain.

They were on the sidewalk in front of the Café Nero. Jana Grover was being taken into custody for the drive to New Scotland Yard, where the Metropolitan police’s Anti-Terror Unit, one of the best in the world, would interrogate her.

Middleton was the only Volunteer present at the moment, though Wiki Chang was in MI5’s tech lab on Euston Road, preparing to crack the encryption on the thumb drives.

Which, according to the documents found in Jana’s briefcase, included details on the copper bracelet technology-the secret elements that would make the system operative.

“You were spot on, Harry. Have to ask, how’d you figure it out?”

Middleton considered his answer. “You could say, by looking at what wasn’t in front of us.”

“How’s that?”

“Questions. I kept coming back to unanswered questions. First of all, the email.”

“Which one’s that?”

“From Sikari to Balan. We found it on Balan’s computer, which Sikari and Jana were pretty damn eager to destroy.” He quoted it for Barrett-Bone. “It said, ‘You recall what I have planned for the “Village.” It has to happen soon-before we can move on. We only have a few weeks at the most.’”

“Ah, before we can move on.”

“Exactly. That told me he had something planned after the incident at the dam.”

“But how did you connect it here?”

“That was another nagging question: we had a lead to the mosque in the very beginning, but it didn’t pan out. We knew it wasn’t a misdirection because that was on the computer too, the one they blew up. But we couldn’t find any connection when we investigated the first time. That told me it might have something to do with what Sikari had planned after the dam.”

“And why did you think it had to do with the heavy-water system?”

“That was speculation, I admit. But I got the idea because of my kind host a few days ago: Mr. No Name-from the Group.”

“Oh, those mad Nazi bastards?”

“Right. They were so adamant about finding the technology that it suggested they knew Sikari had gotten further along in developing a heavy-water system than it seemed. They’d seen the patents and known his copper bracelet wouldn’t work. Then why were they so eager to kidnap me and track down the Scorpion? They suspected that Sikari had withheld some of his research.”

Middleton had then contacted Barrett-Bone, who arranged for increased surveillance around the mosque, easy enough in a city that boasts one CCTV camera for every three residents.

Metropolitan police’s keen-eyed team immediately recognized several cultural or economic affairs representatives from major OPEC nations arriving for prayers. There was no reason for them to be in London, let alone in this neighborhood, unless some operation was going down.

Middleton had a feeling Jana Grover would make an appearance. And, today, finally she had. Circling the mosque and then ducking into Café Nero. A Special Branch agent of Pakistani descent slipped inside for a cuppa, to verify it was she and cover her.

When the operative from the Syrian consulate stepped inside, the trap closed.

Suddenly a woman’s voice raged, “You’ll never beat us!”

Jana Grover was staring at him as she was being slipped into a squad car.

“You’ll never win!”

Seems like we just did, Middleton thought, but didn’t reply.

Barrett-Bone asked, “You’ll want to interrogate her, I assume. I can arrange it.”

The American glanced at his watch. Barrett-Bone, the spy with Patek Philippe taste, couldn’t help a faint frown of pity as he noticed the Timex.

Middleton laughed at his reaction. “Later. I have plans at the moment.” Then he frowned. “But maybe there is something you can do for me, Ian.”

“Whatever it might be, my friend, name it.”

The houselights dimmed.

The concert hall audience slowly fell silent.

But the curtain didn’t rise. And a moment later the lights rose and a voice came over the P.A. system. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please. The management regrets to inform you that there will be a short delay. The concert will begin in fifteen minutes.”

Felicia Kaminski, standing in the wings, sighed. She hadn’t fully recovered from the kidnapping, the injuries, the psychological horror. Nor from the loss of her beloved Bela Szepessy violin (she now clutched a functional but uninspiring instrument borrowed from a musician with the London Symphony).

Besides she was lonely. She hadn’t seen Harold Middleton since he’d returned to London to arrest the woman who’d kidnapped Felicia. She hadn’t seen Nora Tesla or Charley either.

Felicia knew she needed one hundred fifty percent concentration to give a concert of this sort. Yet, under these circumstances, she wasn’t anywhere close. And now this nonsense with the delayed start, made matters worse.

The concert, she knew, would be a disaster.

What was the delay? she wondered, despairing.

The answer came in the form of a low American voice behind her.

“Hello.”

Felicia turned. She gasped to see Harold Middleton. She set her instrument down and ran to hug him.

“I heard you were all right. But I was so worried.”

Eyes tearing, she regarded cuts and bruises.

“I’m fine,” he said, laughing. He looked her over too. “You seem all right.”

She shrugged.

“You know,” Middleton continued, “we have one thing more in common now.”

“What is that, Harold?”

“We’ve both been kidnapped. And escaped.”

Then she stepped away and dried her eyes. “You are, I suppose, responsible for the delayed start?”

He smiled. “You deduced that.”

She nodded.

“Well, there is a security problem.”

“No! What?” She looked out into the crowded hall.